I Saw Her First
by ColourMePretentious
Summary: Snape's childish broodings and his memories of Lily. Very sappy romance-type stuff.


_A/N: There are about a million of these, but I just though I'd give it a go._

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><p>I saw her first.<p>

My eyes beat yours to her crimson hair. The image of posh theatre curtains and lady's lipstick entered my mind years before yours. I admired the way that light sprinkling of freckles dappled her face more perfectly than the sun could hope to. I marvelled at the creamy colour of her perfect complexion, felt my breath falter whenever I touched the warm pillow-softness of her hand, held back a proclamation of love each time those rosy lips twitched into a smile. A smile just for me. Not you. She never smiled at you. She sneered, she smirked, she scowled – but never smiled. Her smile was precious. Sacred. Rare. A special treat for those who were deserving.

To the unobservant outsider – one not in the know – it would seem that she smiled constantly. Never stopped – she was one of those girls. She was a smiler. That's wrong. She wasn't. That "smile" she flashed at everyone was camouflage. I watched her pin it on every morning along with her prefect badge. It was warm and familiar. Enthusiastic and carefree. Everything a smile should be, but it never touched her eyes. Those brilliant almond-shaped bursts of lime. They didn't need a smile to make them sparkle – but when her lips did stretch, when the corners skimmed those emeralds, Merlin. I was the first to get the full-on effect of such a winning combo. Not you. You didn't even get the disguise. I was the one who complimented the added twinkle of such a lip-movement. The first to receive a blush and shoulder-shove for my troubles. The first to pinch her cheeks jokingly whenever it put in an appearance. The first to have mad, rampant fantasies of seizing her passionately and merging my thin, un-worthy lips with her plump, pink ones, mid-smile.

I was the first to smell her hair. Hair worthy of the finest conditioners. Hair that deserved ribbons and bows made from silk and gold, and other precious things. Hair that was scrubbed with bog-standard own-brand shampoo and left hanging loose and untouched, or occasionally scraped back into a sloppy ponytail when it got in her way. It smelled divine. There was no comparison. It was ambrosia and honey. It was roses and jasmine. It was the promise of hope, that parents would stop arguing and greasy haired geeks could get the girl. It was so quintessentially Lily, that to imagine her with any other hair, would be level with sticking a Blast-Ended Skrewt in a pink frock and serving it afternoon tea. I always found an excuse to touch it – feel the almost liquid sensation of the strands flowing through my fingers, bury my face in the haystack of red, hold the blood-coloured tips up to the sunlight and just… marvel. I never wanted to stop. I wanted to hold it in my hands forever, tie it to my wrist so that she'd never be able to leave me.

Her voice… she said _my_ name first. _Severus, _said so kindly and lovingly, passed her lips ages before the resentful, loathing _Potter _slipped out. Her voice was nothing compared to the rest of her, some said. It was comparatively common next to the elegance of her appearance, others whispered. I was not one of them. I saw past the lack of such superficial niceties such as pronouncing G's and twittering in a breathy purr. I liked that her voice was low, and rough – not in that tacky throaty way that was found in the desperate shouts of ageing prostitutes – that it was loud and "know-it-all" as some called it. I liked her all the better for it. It gave her character. Made her more human. More attainable. Plus, I liked the _way _she said things, not _how _she said them. That whining, elongated '_Seeeeeeeeverus!' _the excited and breathless _'Sev!_' the formal, teasing _'Snape' _I especially enjoyed the disgruntled way she would mutter _'Here comes Potter…' _every time you showed up.

I don't like her voice anymore. Now that I'm the recipient of the cold, clipped _'Snivellus' _now that you're been promoted to _'James' _whispered in a dreamy sigh. Playful, exasperated, fond… love…? I've taken to performing the Muffliato charm on myself whenever she's nearby and talking about you in _that _particular tone of voice. I remember with painful precision, that disappointed sigh of _'You've chosen your way, I've chosen mine' _and the more excruciating dismissal _'Why should I be any different?' _that little bugger still skips through my mind at random intervals during the day, and a deep breath and eye-wince is required to hold back a scream of pent-up emotions.

Her hair too, is tainted. Now that you've had your grubby digits all over it. I've seen the way you forcibly grab it in great clumps, lost in passion, desperate to bring her closer. I've noticed the look of wonder in your eyes as you run your hands through it, as though disbelieving that such a sensation could exist. I gag at the way you stare every time she tucks a strand behind an ear, or releases it from a bauble, watching hungrily as it swings loose and spreads gracefully around her. My fingers still ache to stroke it. I am occasionally overcome with a stalker-type urge to cut a strand loose, a little souvenir to remind me that I was once capable of being happy. But I never act on it. I don't want to spoil that waterfall, mar it in any way.

Even her smile has lost its novelty. Her special smile is no longer our secret. She wears it all the time. It has been sullied by lingering looks and lesser, responding smiles. Even that masquerade of a smile brings me no comfort. I remember the way it attempted to twitch into existence that day when you magically hoisted me into mid-air. The day my own lips betrayed me. The hurt contort of her mouth remains burned onto her lips even now. Contaminating them in my eyes. The fact that your lips spend so much time with them doesn't help either. The moment I caught her showing you her smile, I knew I'd lost her. That I'd never get her back. She even has a new smile too. One made especially for you. One so radiant and euphoric, that the old one pales and droops sadly in comparison. As do I near you.

I may have seen her first, but you saw her last. And at the end of the day, that's all that really matters.


End file.
